Tamarack
by amerikanka
Summary: Katniss: "In seventy-four years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive." Tam Rory is seventeen the day she volunteers for the Hunger Games, taking the place of a girl she doesn't even know. This is the story of the first District Twelve Victor.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, this should be interesting... I'm still writing for Harry Potter, but this story has been galloping around in my head since I read the Hunger Games last November. Hopefully people like it... there will be a few cameos of known characters, and one in particular, but I thought it would be interesting to explore the other victor of District Twelve. Katniss does say that they have had two. So here we go! Drop a review if you like it or have any comments - I always read reviews with eager abandon.

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><p>My breath is as light as feathers, scarcely visible in the cool air. I pinch the point of my knife oh so delicately between my forefinger and my thumb before launching it in a sharp flash at the wild dog that is lurking at a pile of entrails I've left for it. It barely has time to issue a swift yelp before it dies, the tip of the well-honed knife lodged in its brain. I leap up from my hiding spot in the bushes and run to my kill, smiling slightly. I will eat well tonight.<p>

I butcher the carcass quickly, keeping one of the choice portions for myself and my family. I wrap the dog steaks up in cloth and tuck them away into my satchel before burying the bones and inedible bits of the dog. I make my way back to the fence and slip under it, grateful the electricity had been cut out earlier that day. I had left immediately when the lights flickered out in school, claiming the need to relieve myself, and I hadn't stopped moving until I reached the forest.

I am lucky that they haven't fixed it yet. The fence will be humming again soon, I have no doubts about that. It has taken me longer than I would have liked to hunt down the wild dog. Dogs aren't normally what I like to hunt, but I hadn't found any signs of deer or any other large game, and my family needs the money. Plus, meat on a dog isn't that bad. Carnivores don't taste as good as herbivores, but they certainly aren't as bad as the food the Capitol decides to grace us with.

I stride down the streets and turn a certain few corners before arriving at the old warehouse and ducking inside it. It is dusty and dark, flakes of coal floating on the air. I stifle a sneeze as I make my way to the back of the warehouse, lifting heavy drapes as I go. A few dark faces look at me and then relax slightly as I go past their booths. I end up at a table with a young woman behind it. "Afternoon, Saedie," I greet her.

She flashes a grin at me, bright in the darkness. "What you got for me today, Tam?" That's my name, or at least that's what people call me here. My mother always calls me Tamarack, which is absolutely ridiculous in my opinion. I put up with it for her sake. My older brother calls me Tammie, which is even worse.

I open my satchel and deposit some dog meat on her table. "Fresh dog." Saedie wrinkles her nose but sighs and passes me some coins. I nod my thanks and make my way out of the dismal warehouse and back to my house as dusk falls.

"Where were you?" My brother, Morel, asks me.

"Hunting," I reply, fishing out the last two dog steaks I have saved for us. He gives me a scrap of a smile. Morel isn't showy with his feelings often, but I know he loves me fiercely. My mother is the same – we are not an emotional family, especially when out in public, truth be told. My father was killed six years ago by the Peacekeepers for poaching, and ever since then we have kept our emotions locked away except with each other.

My mother doesn't like me hunting because of what happened. But then again, it's only because Dad gave himself up that we even still have her with us. She is the one who taught me to throw my knives, and while Morel and I were growing up she would tell us stories of her and father's hunting exploits. We always had meat on the table growing up, which is more than many families can say. When my father was executed Morel started going hunting, but he never had the knack for it I did. I soon became the one who would sneak out in the pale hours before morning and check if the fence was on. Usually it was, so I would have to use a secret way out.

There is a tunnel that was constructed around the time I was born, seventeen years ago. My father helped work on it, which is the only reason I know about it. Several of the mining families here in District Twelve decided that they were sick and tired of only eating tesserae grain and whatever else they could barely afford, and they dug a tunnel in the basement of an abandoned house. One of the families' sons moved in there when he got married, and it is a safe route out of the fence that we may use whenever we like. Most of us poachers try not to use it though, because then the Peacekeepers will grow suspicious. You never know who is watching, and the last thing you want is to be seen coming out of a house no one saw you going in to.

The tunnel is strong and well-built. We're miners here in Twelve – we know how to build tunnels to last. It is a last resort, but it's always nice to know that it's there. Once I got older though, I stopped using it as much. Better to risk my own neck than to get anyone else involved.

Morel cooks one of the thick dog steaks in a pan over the fire. I do some of my homework, my own dog laying his head on my leg while I sit on the floor. His name is Coal, and he's an old dog. My father brought him home a few days before I was born and Coal has been with me since then. His muzzle is frosted white, and I know it is unlikely that he will survive the winter. His joints are stiff and it's hard for him to jump on my bed at nights. It is a miracle that he has lived this long, but I think it's because he's always had a steady supply of meat. Morel throws him a scrap of a rabbit that I knifed down three days ago and coal snaps it up happily.

We sit down to eat in silence. None of us say what's on everyone else's mind – Reaping tomorrow. Morel is nineteen and therefore too old to be sent to the Capitol as a tribute, but I'm only seventeen. I've taken out tesserae just like every other kid in the Seam does. My name is in the Reaping ball twenty-four times, and both my mother and my brother are scared for each one of those slips of paper. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared as well, but it still seems unlikely I will be chosen. My name is in the ball twenty-four times, but I know kids who have over fifty slips with their name. I know kids with fewer too, of course, but I am one of the luckier ones. I only have tesserae for my mother, my brother, and myself. Some of my classmates have many more siblings than I do. Some of them have older relatives and both their parents.

When it comes down to it, I don't feel all that nervous.

I fall asleep in the small room I share with Morel, Coal's back pressed up against my chest. He's a welcome warmth in the dark, cold night. It's unusually cold for this time of year, but my mother is a clothmaker and we have never gone wanting for blankets or decent clothing. I help bring in money and meat with my poaching, my mother sells cloth to those that can afford it, and Morel works in the mines. We all contribute and we have a good life. We seldom go to bed hungry, although there is always room for more food in our bellies.

We are better off than most, and I know this. Morel knows it too, and my mother, and sometimes I think even Coal knows it. He burrows under the blanket, shaggy black fur tickling my sides. I smile and wrap the blanket around both of us, falling asleep quickly.

When I wake, my mother has already prepared breakfast. She saves money all year to be able to do things for us on special days, such as our birthdays or Reaping days. This morning, there is the scent of bacon as I open my eyes. I nudge Coal and once he smells it he hurries to the kitchen. I dress and follow him.

Morel is sitting at the table already as Mother serves out the bacon and fresh bread made with real wheat, not tesserae grain. She puts a tiny pot of honey on the table as well, and Morel and I exchange glances. I don't know how much that cost her. I don't think I want to know. Mother sits down with a slight smile at the two of us, and I can see the worry in her eyes as she looks at me. She is beautiful, our mother. She has the classic Seam features that she passed down to us, but her cheekbones are sculpted and defined and her eyes are bright blue-green. Her hair is soft and shiny and black as night, and it seems that there is never a strand out of place.

People tell me I have her look, but if I do then I'm still growing into it. Blue-green eyes are a rarity here, but Morel and I both have them. Mother told us once that they were passed down from her father, a man from District Four. I have never met him and I know I never will. Mother hasn't seen him since before the Dark Days either, and she was scarcely my age then. Her mother was from here, while her father was from a land by the sea. My grandfather stayed to fight the Capitol, mother tells me, but made my grandmother take my mother and go back to where she was born, back to the mines of Twelve.

She tells Morel and I that the lands weren't always divided like they are now. It seems like it has always been this way, and she never talks about the times before the Dark Days except when we're alone. She used to tell me stories of fishermen and mermaids, the children's stories she was raised on. Tales of lands under the seas and beyond the horizon. I can't imagine them. I've never seen the sea. Mother made sure I knew how to swim. There's a lake outside the fence that she would sneak Morel and I out to sometimes, and she would tell us to imagine that the water went on forever and tasted of salt.

I shake my head and look to the present. It is time for us to go down to the Reaping now, and my mother slicks my hair back into a tail, then picks out sections and braids them around it, securing my long, heavy hair as it falls down my back. She takes out a wooden comb and detangles it gently. I am dressed in a dark green dress with trim around the neck made of a piece of faded navy silk. The combination of the two colors awakes all the color in my eyes, she tells me. It is gathered at the waist and then falls in soft pleats to my ankles. My mother makes beautiful clothing.

My brother and I flank our mother as we make our way down to the town square. There are pens roped off for the eligible tributes and I stand in the one with the other girls my age. We all wear our finest clothes, but I note with pride that the dress my mother made is lovelier than most of the other girl's dresses, including the merchant's children.

I stand stock-still, like a deer uncertain of danger, as the other girls press close to me. My hunting has made me wary and swift, and I feel ready to spring away at the first hint of danger. That's stupid though. The danger is in front of us, in the large glass balls on the raised platform in the square. For the first time, I start to feel slightly nervous. Some of the girls are crying already, especially the younger ones.

Our Capitol representative is already on the stage, smiling happily at the lot of us. She has skin the color of a baby's spanked bottom, I think, but of course I don't say it, even though people aren't supposed to be that pink. Her hair is dark purple and it shines a deep violet in the weak sunlight, but that at least is kind of pretty.

Mayor Benter reads the histories and the Treaty of Treason, but no one really pays attention. There's a sad silence when he declares that we have had no previous victors and makes a depressing joke about how that should change this year. Our representative takes to the podium finally, to say what we all are desperate to hear, to release us from the agonizing wait.

"Welcome!" She chirps to the gathered crowd. "I know you hear me speak to you every year, but my name is Ilia Evace, and I am your District Twelve representitive! I am here to help select your tributes for the Twenty-Ninth Annual Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor!"

Silence greets her proclaimation. None of us care, not really. We're worried and scared for ourselves or our children, and we just want it to be over. She clears her throat and nods to herself, then moves towards the boy's Reaping ball. "Let's get on with it then! The young man chosen to represent your district is..." she pauses for dramatic effect and then draws a name with a flourish, clearing her throat. "Gerom Hill!"

A boy a year older than me steps forward slowly, ducking under the rope of his tribute pen. He looks resigned and slightly angry, but smooths his expression over easily as he takes the stage. There are subdued claps for him and I can see a woman crying silently. I don't know Gerom Hill well. He's a year above me in school and is quiet. He stands on the stage and I can imagine the crowds in the Capitol going wild. He's bulging with muscle from hauling livestock around – at least I think that's what he does. Whenever I go to the butcher he's there working in the pens behind the shop.

Ilia goes to the other Reaping ball and I feel a twitch of fear. "Are there any volunteers to take Gerom Hill's place?" She waits for half a minute and I listen to the wind. "No? Then let's move on. The lovely young lady chosen for your district is..." she does that irritating pause again and I remain completely still. "Milla Clearwater!"

A cry of anguish is quickly stifled, but it echoes in my mind. A young girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, walks forward slowly, almost tripping over her own feet. She struggles to jump onto the stage before Gerom lifts her up. I'm surprised, as is the rest of the crowd. There are murmurs and the cry of sadness still sounds in my skull. I don't know why. I wasn't chosen. There are whispers of relief among the girls I'm standing with.

Milla Clearwater stands on the stage looking pitifully small. Gerom looks like a statue, the image of what a tribute should be. Milla is hunched over and clearly terrified. Ilia beams out at us, asking quickly, "Are there any volunteers to take Milla Clearwater's place?" She waits again and for a few seconds there's silence.

This is wrong. Milla is silent and I can see tears pouring down her face. She won't come home and everyone know it. She's a Seam kid like me, dark hair and olive skin, and I'll never see her again except on the television that we're forced to watch for the Games. I can hear the cry from earlier as though it were still going, on and on in my mind, and suddenly I'm ducking under the rope. "I volunteer!" I call out.

I know he's far away from me, but I can almost hear Morel's groan, and I can picture him turning to my mother and hugging her tightly. "I volunteer," I repeat, leaping onto the stage lightly. I move like a hunting wolf, I know I do. My father used to tell me that even when I was young, I had a way about me, an animalistic grace. I can imagine the Capitol crowds wondering about that, about the way I move, why I volunteered.

I stop in front of Milla and kneel down to look at her. She's staring at me with hope and fear in her grey eyes, praying that I actually mean it. "Go home, sweetheart," I murmur to her. I stand up again and take my place next to Gerom, who gives me a sidelong look. Milla scrambles off the stage so quickly that it breaks my heart. An older woman runs to her and presses her close in her arms, then meets my eyes in a silent thanks. I twitch my lips slightly and then the moment is broken by Ilia hurrying up to me. "Oh my goodness!" She crows excitedly. "What's your name?"

"Tamarack Rory," I say.

"Well Tamarack Rory, you are the first volunteer ever for your District! This promises to be an exciting Hunger Games! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you your tributes – Gerom Hill and Tamarack Rory!" There's more quiet applause and then we are ushered through the crowd into the Justice Building after the anthem plays. I am put into a room with soft carpets and lavish chairs, but I stand in the middle of the room rather than sit down.

Soon enough, Morel and my mother come in. They both grab me in a hug and we stand there together for a few minutes, breathing in each other's scents and taking comfort in the fact that this is the last time we will be together. "I am so proud of you," my mother eventually whispers in my ear.

I look at her out of the corner of my eye, confusion evident in my glance. "Oh my sweet I love you so much and I don't want to lose you. But what you did for that girl's family is the bravest thing I have ever seen, and the most selfless. And that makes me so proud to be your mother."

"Mom's right," Morel murmurs in my other ear. "Tammie... I'll take care of Coal, don't worry about that. And... and try and stay safe." It's an empty sentiment and he seems irritated that he brought safety up. "I love you." He says huskily instead of trying to say anything else.

I press my face into both of their shoulders. "I love you too." I don't promise to try and come back. They don't ask me to. Soon enough the Peacekeepers return and we separate. As I am escorted out the door and to the waiting train I look back at them, blue-green eyes meeting blue-green eyes, and I mouth _I love you_ one more time. My mother blows me a kiss and my brother simply looks at me, and that's all I need to know.

The cameras roll as the train slowly pulls away from the station. They close the door and I watch through a window as the fence flashes by and then we are engulfed by trees, heading west into the slowly lowering sun. We're going faster than I have ever traveled, but I've never even been in a car before. I am shown to a room that is larger than the main room in my house back home. The drawers are filled with clothes but I ignore them, instead washing my face using a stream of hot water from the tap. That's also strange – back home we have to heat the water if we want it hot.

I go down to supper soon after that. There is lots of food, but I end up only eating a grilled steak of real beef, not wild dog or rabbit or deer, and about half a loaf of bread. The other food seems too rich. Gerom sits across from me, eating some kind of stew and scraping the bowl clean with the other half-loaf of bread. Ilia smiles perkily at us, then ushers us into another car to watch the recap of the Reapings across the country.

I know I should observe my competition and I try. There's a girl as lovely as the sun from District 1. She volunteers and I know she's made a career out of the Hunger Games. There are people like that, but they're hard for those of us that live in the poorer districts to imagine. Siblings from District 11. I wonder if the Gamemakers did that on purpose. It's supposed to be completely random, but sometimes things happen that make it seem planned. Whenever there's a child of a victor (this has only happened to three tributes, but they're the only victor kids) they are drawn. Usually around the age of fifteen or sixteen. They don't have better luck or anything, but the Capitol goes crazy for them and they get showered with gifts in the arena.

The girl from Nine and a twelve year old boy from Five cry on the stage. Finally, it is time to show our Reaping and I perk up slightly, wondering how it looks on camera. Gerom is chosen on the screen and I dart a sideways look at him. He is passive and I'm starting to wonder if he has any emotions. That's not fair and I know it, but when he meets my eye his lips twitch and he gives me a tiny nod.

I volunteer on the screen and the announcers immediately start to comment. Who am I? What is Milla to me? Is she a friend of the family? What would possess me to volunteer? They end by commenting how difficult it will be for Gerom and I to manage without a mentor. Apparently our gifts will be chosen by one of the Gamemakers by the name of Mirador Gensing. I don't know the name.

As I start to head back to my room to sleep, Gerom grabs my arm and drags me along the length of the train. I don't fight him. I don't know what he wants but as soon as we get to the back of the train he opens three windows and the sound is almost deafening.

"Why did you do it?" He demands, staring at me with his light grey eyes. They're almost luminous, the moon outside shining on them.

I am silent for some time, but he waits patiently. "Because she's a child," I say slowly. "She deserves to grow up and live her life. She has done nothing to deserve death in the arena."

"And you have?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "No. I don't deserve death in the arena either. I'm a child too. So are you, however much you may pretend otherwise. We stand more of a chance than little children though, and I will not watch a child be slaughtered and know that I could have done something about it."

"You have for years. What's different now?"

I shrug. "Enough is enough." I don't know where this almost-rebellious talk has come from. Maybe it's been steeping for years since my father was killed trying to help put food on the table for my family. Maybe it's the sheer injustice of a child being forced to go to her death for the entertainment of the denizens of the Capitol. Whatever it is, it's making me speak up. I'm only glad no one can hear but Gerom.

He gives me a hunting smile, a wolf smile. "Enough is enough."

"What are you going to do about it?" I challenge him.

"I'm going to show them that they can't take me."

I look at him for further explanation. There's a light in his eyes that disturbs me. "Before we reach the Capitol tomorrow, I'll be gone. I'm leaving."

"You think they're just going to let you walk away?" I can't help but laugh.

He snickers along with me. "Of course not. I'm going to jump."

I feel my mouth fall open slightly. "And you," he continues, "you go on and win. Our kids need a mentor, not some different low-level, boot-licking Gamemaker every year who only wants to advance his position. Don't win for me, don't do it for you, or your family, or to prove something – do it because those kids back home, and all the ones we've sent before, they don't have a snowball's chance in a fire without a mentor." He's so intense it scares me before I realize something.

He's right. Ours is the only district at this point that doesn't have a mentor for its tributes and we're notoriously bad. I start to speak before he bulls over me. "And you need to win, so don't take any shit from any one. If your stylist tells you to wear some ridiculous thing and makes you look like trash, you fix it. If the Gamemaker doesn't send you anything, you steal what you need, you fight for it tooth and nail, and you _win_. You do everything you need to, because our kids don't have a hope without you."

"Why don't you?" I finally shoot at him. "Why me?"

He gives me that smile again. "Because I'm not a survivor. I know you poach. I know you have skills to survive, and I don't. You can last and you can get home. And I'm too passionate, I know that. I would say something that would make them try and kill me."

"And you think I won't?" I don't know where this sudden plan has come from, but I can feel in my gut that it's right, that it's the thing that I have to do, that it's what's going to get me through these Games.

He shakes his head. "No. You will do whatever it takes."

"How do you know that?"

"Because you will." I don't know if that's enough, but then I realize that's he's right again – I will do whatever it takes now that I have a plan. If I can bring our kids (that's what Gerom called them and that's right too, I just know it) home then I will have succeeded, then I will have truly won the Hunger Games.

"Okay," I whisper. His eyes are afire as he looks down about six inches at me, then he presses a quick kiss to my lips. It's unexpected and shoots warmth from my head to my toes, but then he's gone.

I never see Gerom Hill again. I spend the morning in the company of Ilia and some attendants as we pull closer to the Capitol. She dispatches people to find Gerom and they don't, which sends the train into a mild panic. I claim a chair in the car with huge panes of glass from floor to ceiling and watch as we enter a tunnel and then light spills out onto me when we exit. I feel the train begin to slow and I walk over to one of the windows as Ilia rushes frantically by me. I stare at all the people on the platform, feeling their excited eyes and knowing that they will be shocked when only one tribute emerges.

But I am blameless. I was careful to spend all of this morning around someone else who could vouch for me being there. I heard that Gerom ate breakfast very early that morning, that Ilia had gone to fetch me and then he left. He timed his exit perfectly – there can be no skepticism that I was involved in his disappearance.

The train stops and I descend the stairs alone. The crowds fall momentarily silent and then whispers erupt as I walk the path to the waiting car by myself, my shoes clicking a rhythm on the ground. I make sure to project an air of confidence as I add a slight saunter to my walk, allowing my blue-green eyes to languidly roam the audience. The car door is opened and I slide in like I've been doing it my whole life.

I will win this.


	2. Chapter 2

I meet my stylist later that day. She is sullen and angry at being given District Twelve, and hands me off to her prep team with an irritated wave. They flutter around me and turn my skin flawless, my nails perfectly shaped and my hair slick, smooth and shiny before pinning it back tightly to my scalp. My stylist goes by the name of Jissa and she has rainbow colored eyes. She highlights the contours of my face with make-up, drawing out my eyes and sinking my cheeks in shadows cast by my cheekbones. My eyes are surrounded by charcoal-colored powder and there are lines drawn in kohl back to my temples.

She suits me up in a brown canvas material and then places a heavy headpiece on the crown of my skull. I can't see what she's doing as she pins and shapes the fabric covering me just the way she wants it, and I bear it patiently, standing as still as I can. I realize that I've been doing that a lot lately – standing like a wolf uncertain whether to flee or fight. It's not intentional, but maybe it's how I'm staying sane. If I treat this like a hunt, where I have to know my prey and beware my enemy, maybe I can get through it. Distance is, perhaps, the key to winning the Hunger Games.

What feels like hours later, Jissa lets me look in a mirror. The brown fabric has been made completely shapeless, falling directly from my shoulders and somehow masking the curves of my breasts and hips. The headpiece is a grey spear and as I look sideways in the floor to ceiling mirror, I get it.

I am a mining ax.

I feel completely ridiculous as I am escorted down to the staging area for the tributes. Some are gorgeous, but I can feel their eyes on me as I stand alone. There is no male tribute accompanying me, which is shocking. It had never happened before. I remain alone by my chariot and look over the other tributes as we wait for the signal to start.

There are some younger tributes that look nervous beneath their heavy make-up and ridiculous costumes. Many of the older ones, especially the well-fed and clearly prepared ones from the first two districts, look excited and murmur amongst themselves, their every posture and gesture evoking strength and power. Even they shoot glances at me, and I think that they must have heard rumors that I have killed my fellow tribute, that I am a dangerous entity in these Games.

Those rumors aren't true, of course, but even I'll admit that it makes a good story. It's better than the true story when it comes to advantages for me. I'm not going to disprove it or argue it. It helps me look like a major player, the lone District Twelve tribute. Our district normally spits out tributes that barely make it past the first day, past the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. We have never even had a tribute make it to the final twelve.

Soon enough it it time to load in to the chariots. Jissa gives me a hand up and then stalks away like I've mortally offended her by even thinking about wearing her hideous creation. I see a few other tributes being given words and what I assume is advice by their mentors and I realize that I haven't even met this Gamemaker that is supposed to help me. What was his name? Mir-something.

The first chariot proceeds out into the streets and I can see the tributes of District One practically shining in what seems to be diamond-studded silk. They are the picture of luxury and health. District Two follows them, fearsome in leather armor and holding swords high. The other districts roll out as well, and I catch glimpses of their costumes.

Finally, it is my turn. The crowds heaped along the sides of the street seem less than thrilled about my costume and the cheering lessens in intensity, although that could just be because there is nothing about my district to make them love me. I am as still as a statue in my mining ax headpiece and my wooden dress, but I know that they are laughing at the efforts of my stylist. She has failed, then, and I am going down with her. I know how it goes – the tributes that receive attention also receive gifts in the arena that make the difference between life and death. I must regain their eyes, I must make them forget the other tributes. I am from District Twelve and I have neither a mentor nor even another tribute from my home. I am a loner completely and fully in this deathmatch, and I need a sponsor to help me.

My mind races as my chariot is pulled along the streets. _If your stylist tells you to wear some ridiculous thing and makes you look like trash, you fix it_, Gerom Hill told me. Was it only last night? It seems like ages ago. How can I fix it? There is nothing else to wear, but I am running out of time. There is nothing else to wear... Suddenly I know what to do.

I rip the fabric from my body and throw the headpiece into the crowd with surprising strength. I unpin my hair and let it fall down, but then the wind catches it and it makes a cape behind me. I am wearing very short black shorts and a black bra under the remnants of my mining ax costume, and the light from the torches on my chariot illuminate my honed muscles as I stand, one leg slightly forward and the other straight and locked behind me. My arms are curved behind me and I lift my face proudly. I am now nearly naked before the people of the Capitol and the entirety of Panem, and I couldn't care less.

I am proud and strong. Perhaps the rich folk of the Capitol did not know that before but they certainly do now. I see myself on the screens as my chariot draws near to the ending point of the procession, and the cheering resumes its former intensity. I know I am shaking their belief that a tribute is a cowed teenager from the districts. We are expected only to show spirit in the arena, and to do exactly as told until then, just like our districts act with the Capitol.

But I am not humbled or obedient to my Capitol stylist. I am showing these people that I do what I want and will not be laughed at. At least, that's what I feel I am showing them. I hope they see it too.

The rest of the parade passes with me standing in my chariot holding my pose. I hope I have impressed one sponsor at the very least. I have no way of knowing, but I can hope.

Jissa yells at me and then storms off once I am back in the training building, screaming about how she quits. People, including Ilia, buzz around me and swear that they will find me a new stylist, and within a few hours (despite the lateness of the night, I am not allowed to sleep) a young woman is ushered through the doors. She can barely be older than myself, and has the eyes and tail of a cat. She is lovely, with golden hair that somehow reminds me of a lion's mane that I saw in a book once.

"Hello there. My name is Tigris," she says with a smile. Her canine teeth are pointed. I look at her warily and she sighs, then sits down in front of me and leans her forearms on her thighs, looking at me intensely. "I'm going to be straight with you here. I want to be a good stylist. I want to help you look fabulous and give you every aid I can to win these Games. And that means we need to work together. I won't fight you, but you need to tell me when you don't like something. I don't think you want to be ripping your dress off when it comes time for your interview, do you?"

I shake my head, wondering where this niceness is coming from. She quickly makes it clear by says, "This is my first year as a stylist. I wasn't even supposed to get it until Jissa quit on you and they were desperate for someone new. I need to make a splash with you, and that means I'm going to give you what you want." She's the first person from the Capitol that I have met that gives me the lowdown straight, exactly as she sees it. She's right – this whole stylist and tribute thing can benefit both of us, so I nod and we shake hands.

My prep team vanished with Jissa, and so it's just myself and Tigris. I can't say I'm unhappy they left, because Tigris and I get along quite well. She has an obsession with cats and more than once brings up the idea of turning me into a cat for the interview, but I firmly shut that down each time.

It's either late at night or very early in the morning when she leans back. We've been talking for hours and while I have training the next day, I understand that this is very important too. Tigris nods to herself, then hands me a drawing she's been working on for the past half hour. "I think this will do. It's traditional for you to wear a dress, but with the display you put on at the opening ceremony, I think that we should go with something not so ordinary. You caught the sponsor's attentions with showing off the lines of your body, so let's stick with that."

I examine the drawing. It's clearly me even though she's only sketched a few marks on my face. There are tight pants, dark and slashed diagonally along the muscle of my thigh to show deep gold fabric. I am wearing tall boots with sharp heels that I doubt I'll be able to walk in. The pants are slung low on my hips, baring the points of my hipbones and the lines of muscle in my abdomen. I am wearing a shirt with long sleeves but my belly and ribcage are bared up to just under my breasts. My sleeves are also slashed with dark gold. There is a collar with a gold stone set in it, and I know that the combination of gold and black will look fantastic against my olive skin.

I see what Tigris has done. The Capitol got a good look at my body during the procession. They know that I am not afraid. Now they will get a chance to see just how defined my figure really is, focusing on the area that many girls neglect when they train. I am also outside of the normal slew of female tributes by wearing pants and not a dress. It will mark me out even more, and frankly, I need all the attention I can get. It still looks slightly feline, but I can live with it.

Tigris stands and places a hand on my shoulder. "I'll get to work on this. Good luck in training, and I'll see you in three days." I wave slightly to her as she leaves, and then fall into my bed and am asleep almost instantly.

Ilia wakes me up the next morning for training. "Up, up, up!" She crows after letting herself into my room. "You have about an hour to get down to the training facilities. Remember to take your time and hide your strengths, that's what I've always heard." She scampers away and I get up slowly, rubbing my eyes. I've slept maybe five hours since Tigris left and I must look a mess. I splash water on my face and go get breakfast before riding down on the elevator.

I've braided my hair back and coiled it atop my head like a crown, and I do feel slightly regal as I enter the training room. A handful of the other tributes are there, and they look at me warily. Most of them are from the upper districts, if I remember their pictures correctly. Clearly, the Careers are too good to be here on time. I take a seat on the floor, in the half-circle that's forming around a Gamemaker.

Once the Careers flock in the Gamemaker tells us to learn new things at all the various stations, and the stronger, better-fed tributes immediately start weapons practice. I do not. I am confident in my throwing-knife abilities and I feel no need to show off. Instead I go to the edible plants station and start learning about those that aren't native to District Twelve. I spend a few hours there and press new facts into my memory. I don't want to be in the arena and not be able to remember the difference between nightlock and salmonberries.

The tributes gather together for lunch. I sit alone but look covertly at the others, scouting potential allies. I know I cannot do this on my own... well, perhaps I can, but it would be easier if I had at least one ally.

My instinctive reaction is to protect the children here. There are a two tributes that are too young. They are just like Milla in their innocence. But no one volunteered for them. It hurts that I cannot form an alliance with them and try to protect them. If I did, I know someone else would have to kill them or they would have to kill me, because I cannot kill children. I don't know if I can kill the other tributes either, but the idea of killing children is so repulsive to me I can practically taste it.

I am snapped out of my thoughts when the boy from District Four sets his plate down across from me. My eyes meet his own, so similar in color. "Hello," he smiles at me.

"Hello," I say back.

"I'm Kirrigen Cove. Call me Kirr."

"I'm Tamarack Rory," I speak slowly, curious as to what he wants. "You can call me Tam."

"Nice to meet you, Tam." His smile is so disarming and genial that I almost relax. "How are you enjoying the Capitol?"

He made a mistake in asking that. I don't want to make pleasant talk and get to know him. "What do you want?" I ask bruskly.

He blinks but recovers from my harshness quickly. "I was watching you. I think we can help each other."

I raise an eyebrow at him and he explains. "Look, you were at the edible plants station earlier. How many did you recognize?"

"Not many," I admit warily. "But I learned."

"Of course, of course. But here's the thing – those are plants from District Four, many of them were. I recognized nearly all of them. We're going into an arena like District Four, I'd bet my boat back home. I can help you."

"That's you helping me. What am I going to do for you?" I am not stupid. There is a price, there is always a price.

"You didn't even look at the weapons stations earlier. That tells me one of two things. Either you're so completely hopeless with weaponry that you won't even bother, or you're so damn confident that you don't need to train. And judging from your actions on the night of the opening ceremony, and the fact that you're clearly muscled, it's the latter of those options."

My mouth has opened slightly during his little speech. He has been watching me, and I don't really know what to think of that. "Okay, so say I am good at fighting. So are you, and you could probably join the Career pack. Why me?"

He shrugs slightly, something in the motion reminding me of Gerom for half a second. Maybe it's the way his eyes dart away and then flick back to mine intensely, maybe it's the bare hint of a growl in his tone of voice, maybe it's something in the way his shoulders are set. "Because you're less likely to stab me in the back."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do." When did people suddenly start to read me well and accurately? First Gerom, now this Kirrigen. "Anyone who would volunteer, not for the glory of the thing but to save someone - don't attempt to deny it - they're not going to stab me in the back. If you do pick a fight, we'll both be armed, and I don't get the feeling you're going to stand by and watch me die." He's right again. If we ally and he gets hurt or is in trouble, I will do everything in my power to help him.

"And I won't let you die either. I'm not that kind of person." I pinpoint why he reminds me of Gerom. It's the nobility, the passion. Kirrigen has that same light that Gerom did, that idiotic one that made him vanish off the train. He's too noble for this mess.

I have a touch of it too, I know, but not like they have. I decide and give him a half smile. "Allies then." Something tells me I won't have to watch out for him being behind me. I will anyway, but I won't have to. We shake on it and go back to the training stations.

After training is over for the day I retreat to my room, but I can't escape having dinner with Ilia and my mentor. It's clear he's Capitol born and bred as soon as I see him. He's looking at me with unreadable eyes, but I get the sense that he's not as disappointed as he thought he would be. "It's good to finally meet you, Tam."

"Likewise, sir," I say warily, focusing on my food.

"So... what did happen on the train?"

I blink at him slowly. "You're kidding, right?" I shake my head in disgust. "If I really had done something, what gives you any idea that I would tell you?"

He claps his hands delightedly. "Spirit! You'll do well, Miss Tam. Possibly even top eight this year!"

His eagerness for me to not die too early is sickening, and I push my chair away from the table so I can stand and glare at him. "I am not your toy to play with and throw away. I am a human just like you, and on top of all the other reasons, I'm going to win this just to spite you." I stalk off and go to my room, falling asleep quickly.

The next day of training is much like the first. Kirr and I eat together and two other tributes approach us, the twins from District Eleven. They both have large, liquid brown eyes that remind me of deer, although the boy is more warlike than deer tend to be. Kirr smiles at them and engages them in small talk while I watch them carefully. They both seem strong, and they're fifteen if they're a day. They're tall for their ages though – the girl is almost as tall as me, and I'm tall for a girl anyway. The boy towers over Kirr, and he would have probably been an inch or so taller than Gerom as well.

"We would like to ally with you two," the girl says, looking directly at me. I don't know why she's picked me out as the leader, but for whatever reason she has, and Kirr isn't complaining. He nods at me mildly, indicating that he's fine with following my choices.

"Why?" I ask the girl. Her name is Autumn, I remember.

"Because I'd like to stand a chance against the Careers," her brother rumbles. His name is Morro.

"What gives you that idea?"

"You two are clearly capable. And if someone has to win, I'd like it not to be a Career. We'll keep each other alive and then figure it out from there." Well, at least he's up front about it. I've never enjoyed people who dance around the point.

It seems fair enough and I nod to them, inviting them to sit down and join us formally. I steal a glance at the Career pack, and they don't seem to like the idea of four older tributes forming an alliance. I let my eyes slide over the children like oil over water, not wanting to have to deal with the fact that they will die soon. No child has ever won the Hunger Games, and I know no child ever will.

If I had a choice, if I didn't have to win these Games, I would take one of the children under my protection and fight for them to the death. If we were the last two I would either take my own life or let the child kill me, because I couldn't have it any other way. But I don't have a choice – in order to help the kids of my own district, I need to win. I will win.


	3. Chapter 3

I yawn as I wait my turn for the training evaluation. I roll my shoulders and limber up my neck by letting my head swing from side to side. Kirr is waiting with me and chatting a bit, but I'm barely paying attention. He's being nice and I should appreciate it, but I'm too concerned with making an impression on the Gamemakers to give him the attention I should.

Everything I do in these games, I need to do big. I'm still wracking my brains to try and decide when Morro comes out of his demonstration and nods at me to go in. Kirr gives my shoulder a squeeze and I smile at him distractedly before I walk in to the room.

I look around. There are different stations that I can demonstrate my abilities in, and I am immediately drawn to the throwing knives. I launch a few at a target before I realize that the Gamemakers aren't paying attention. They looked bored and stupefied, and I feel my anger rising. I am usually calm and collected, or at least that's the face that I put on for these people, but I hate being ignored. I always have.

I hurl a knife at the light above their heads, lightning-quick, and then dive under the table. I lock my arms around the back of my neck and curl up as glass comes pouring down, the huge light-tube shattered by the force of my knife. It seems to go one forever, and I can hear shrieks from the Gamemaker's table. It serves them right.

Once the crashing of the glass fades away, I emerge from the shelter of the table. Despite my efforts to keep safe, I didn't escape unscathed. I have a cut on my cheek and more on my hands, but I ignore them. The Gamemakers are looking at me in a mix of shock, horror, and anger, and I shrug nonchalantly. "Always be on your guard," I say. "That could have been aimed at any one of you."

I let those words hang in the air for a moment, staring at a few of the Gamemakers intently, and then stalk out.

On my way back to my room, I allow myself a moment in the elevator. I take a few quick breaths, trying to remember who I am. I am not this person who goes around threatening people. I am not this cold. I am not this guarded. But for this godforsaken time in my life, I have to be. I hate it like I've never hated anything before, and I bite my lip so hard it bleeds. I can taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth and it reminds me that the blood needs to stay inside my body. I have a reason for being what I am here.

Once the elevator doors open I am composed again. Ilia descends on me, trying to get me to tell her how I think I've done. I assume my usual silence after a few curt, cryptic comments. I don't know how they'll rank me. Either they'll place me below everyone else, to attempt to teach me my place. It won't work, and my show of dramatics will have been for nothing except me own anger. Or maybe... maybe they'll admire my nerve. A falling piece of glass could have killed any one of them, and I had threatened a few. Hopefully they'll give me a good score based on that alone, my daring.

The scores are released later. Kirr gets a nine. Autumn ranks higher than her brother, to my slight surprise. I will have to keep an eye on her. I don't get that sense of nobility from her that I get from Kirr. That's a good thing for her survival, but as bitter as it makes me feel, I cannot let her win. Every district but mine has a mentor for their kids. I am going at this completely alone, and I have to be the last to do so.

When my face flashes up on the screen, I immediately hear a shriek from Ilia. "What did you do?" She cries at me, a delighted smile on her face. The number on the screen is a ten. I hide my own satisfaction and shrug slightly. My Capitol-assigned mentor shares in her happiness as I walk away and fall asleep in my room.

The next day is the day of the interviews. My Capitol-assigned mentor attempted to coach me but I did not listen, and now it is Ilia in front of me with six hours to go before I get my handful of minutes.

"What's your angle?" She asks me for what feels like the fifteenth time.

"I don't have one," I say in a monotone. "I want to win."

She tsks at me. "You all want to win, but why? Why do _you_ want to win, Tam?"

"Because I have to." Ilia throws up her hands in despair and stalks out of the room, calling back that she'll send Tigris in.

Because I don't have a prep team, Tigris readies me herself. I watch myself transform in the mirror in front of me. She shadows my eyes and draws out the color of them, blue-green bright against the olive of my skin. My cheekbones are heightened and defined, and my lips are plump and glossy.

She pulls a face at the fresh cut on my cheek. I had tended to it the night before, but she manages to cover up the still bright red gash slightly before I stop her. "No. Let them see."

"There's showing a bit of attitude and then there's arrogance," she cautions me, wiping the make-up off gently.

"And then there's just not caring at all."

That gets the corners of her mouth to twitch upwards in a grin. "As you say."

She pulls at my hair for a while, before weaving it into a braid of more complexity than my mother ever knew how to do. "I want you to be recognizable even in the arena," Tigris explains to me. It makes sense.

Once my hair is secured she helps me into my clothes. I don't need much help, but she adjusts the fit and lay of the fabric as she commands me to move around. I am proud that I stumble only barely in the boots with pointy heels, and Tigris favors me with a leonine smile as I pretend that nothing is wrong. "Think cat," she grins. I manage not to roll my eyes, even though it is good advice. A cat rarely falls, and when it does it pretends like it didn't.

The outfit, when I look at myself in a circle of mirrors, is even more stunning and daring than I had thought before. It makes my skin glow against the blacks and golds. The black collar is some soft, plush material that I want to keep stroking and I don't know what the stone in it is, but its color is the truest gold I have even seen. The shirt is cut high and upwards in an arch just under my breasts. It bares all of my midriff, though my arms are completely covered. My pants go down to my ankle and are tucked into soft leather bots, but they are slung so low on my hips I fear briefly that they might slip off. Tigris has worked some magic though, and they don't. My hips are bared, as is all of my lower stomach and lower back.

I look and feel sexier than I ever have before. I know there will be girls in see-through dresses, but I feel that I look much better than they ever did when I saw them on the television. My outfit is me, or at least my persona for these games – daring, indifferent, and deadly.

She escorts me to where Ilia and my Capitol mentor are waiting. The mentor looks unhappily at my clothes and Ilia manages a smile, and I can tell they both don't approve of my gold and black midriff-baring outfit. Well, at least I make an impression, and it's much too late to do anything about it now except wear it with pride and grace. I can do that. I must do that.

The tributes are herded into a waiting area before we are shoved onto the stage. I will be the last one speaking, of course, and so I tune out slightly for the first few interviews. I perk up a bit for Kirr's interrogation, focusing on him as the applause dies down after his name is announced.

He is in his element, making jokes at his own expense, causing the female portion of the audience to swoon with his charming and endearing smile. He shrugs when asked about his plan for the arena. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve... and I'm sure my friends do to."

The interviewer pounces on that comment (how can there be friends here?), but Kirr dismisses him gently as the buzzer goes off, refusing to tell who he has allied with. I am grateful for that, even though it won't matter much soon. The rest of the tribute interviews go right by me until I hear the tail end of the buzzer for Morro's interview and I realize with a start that it's my turn.

I stand and walk over to the seat as if in a dream, but some part of me making me move languidly and show off. I sway my hips in a saunter, letting my heels click sharply on the stage. I sit down in the chair and then recline, throwing one leg over the arm rest and smiling at the interviewer with one corner of my mouth.

"Miss Tam Rory, your training score was quite impressive!"

I don't move or say anything. The interviewer seems slightly put-out by my ignorance, but tries again. "So, Tam, what do you think of the Capitol so far? A little bit different from District Twelve?"

I look away pointedly, fixing my gaze on some distant spot on the wall. They do not want to know what I think of the Capitol. I'm on the verge of saying that but hold my silence. I need to impress people, not anger them. And, despite the frantic motions I can see Ilia making at me out of the corner of my eye, I do know what I'm doing. I think.

I can tell the interviewer is getting angry, but he maintains his calm impressively. "I'm sure we're all dying to know... who was that girl you volunteered for? A cousin? Family friend?"

That gets my attention. My eyes snap back to him so suddenly I can almost see him flinch. "A child who does not deserve to die." I speak plainly and slowly, as though stating an absolute truth. I am stating an absolute truth.

"But you could die just as easily in the arena." This interview has taken a dark turn. The audience is silent but for a few buzzing whispers, and Ilia is staring at me like I've committed a sin.

I let slip a scrap of a smile and arch my back, stretching in the chair dramatically. "Not so easily, I think." I feel my smile grow as I look out at the audience, baring more teeth than is strictly necessary while still looking sort of friendly. Let them think what they like. Let them think I am an animal. "I have absolutely no intention of dying in the arena. I am going to win this because the kids back home don't have a mentor. They have no one looking out for them except a Capitol-assigned keeper who changes every year. I will help them as best as I can, because someone has to." The fierceness in my voice has left the interviewer shocked, and I sense that the audience is breathless as well as I continue to stare at them. "Without a mentor, we of District Twelve will continue to send our children off to their deaths. If I can bring back even one, that will make this hell worth it."

The buzzer goes off and I slink back to my seat, all attitude and confidence and insolence. I catch Kirr's smirk of approval and grin myself.

Watching the recap of the interviews later that night, I see that my ratings have gone sky high. A few people of the Capitol are asked to talk about me – I don't know if they're high society or just folk off the street, but they all gush about me. It's a strange feeling. Suddenly my quest to be the mentor of all the District Twelve kids is an altruistic venture, the most admirable thing ever to come out of the Games. I'm the favorite because of my passion for helping others, they say, because of my completely selfless goal. I don't care what they say, as long as they say it and help me in the arena.

I fall asleep easily that night, despite the fact that I am to be thrown into the arena the next morning. It is my last safe sleep and I plan to enjoy it.

Tigris wakes me the next morning. I'm glad it's her and not Ilia or that Gamemaker who's supposed to be keeping watch over me. She shakes me awake and then waits while I take a shower. She blows my hair dry and braids it with gentle fingers, smiling at me through the mirror.

"I'm not supposed to tell you this. I don't think I'm even supposed to know," she says to me as she shakes out my clothes for the arena. "I overheard Ilia and your mentor talking, though. Apparently you have more sponsors than they know what to do with."

I let a small, satisfied grin spread across my face. "Good."

"I thought you might say that. And... I was thinking..." She's hesitant now, but, meeting my eyes for a moment, she shrugs and continues. "I was thinking that maybe you have something you know you'll need in the arena. I could suggest it to them. Better that then them sending you piles of things that are useless to you. I know a traditional weapon to send to a favorite is a sword, but do you know how to use one?"

I shake my head. "I thought not," Tigris said. "So what do you need?"

"Throwing knives," I say immediately. This might be my one chance to ask for anything. I doubt they will pay attention to my wants in the arena, focusing instead on what they think will look nice, just as Tigris said. I don't know if that's entirely fair of me – it probably isn't – but I don't care. "Depending on the weather in the arena, clothing appropriate for that. I'm sure you can advise them. Firestarting things, preferably waterproof."

Tigris pats my shoulder. "I'll do my best. I'm assuming that you want the throwing knives the most, if you don't get any at the Cornucopia." I nod. "Thanks for letting me know. Now get dressed."

The clothes she hands me were made by someone else, and she is probably more curious about them than I am. She paces around my and mutters as I dress, fingering the fabric occasionally. "Light, very breathable mesh top... no sleeves on it. Shorts that go to nearly your knees with lots of pockets... These boots are strange. No laces, very stretchable material, no seams. I hope those soles hold up. Belt not made out of leather – it's some kind of cord. I think you could probably unweave it for rope if you had to."

She looks at me for a while and then hands me two final things. "These wristbands go with it. I've looked them over. They turn into gloves with webbing between the fingers of you roll them up over your hands, and that tells me that I hope you know how to swim. By all of this, I'd say you're going somewhere wet and humid. All your clothes will dry quickly, and they're not meant for warmth."

"If I'm going somewhere where I'll have to swim I need waterproofing sealant for my knives and gear." Back home I just took care not to get them wet, but if I have to swim then I know they will. And they must make something in the Capitol that can waterproof everything. I will trust to Tigris to find it.

"I'll do my best, Tam." We hurry down to the waiting transportation, a hovercraft with no windows. Ilia and my Capitol-assigned mentor join us there, Ilia jabbering away while I tune her out and fall back asleep for as long as I can.

Tigris wakes me once more and escorts me down to the holding area. My mentor blusters around a bit before leaving, Ilia gives me a tearful hug, which surprises me, and then wishes me luck. Finally, I am alone with Tigris again. She hands me a cord with a tiny pendant on the end. "Here's your token."

"I don't have a token."

"I know. So I made you one." My mouth falls open slightly. I am beyond touched. I take the cord and look at the pendant. It is the golden stone from my interview outfit, but it has been carved into a tiny cat with blue-green stone chips set in it for eyes. "You're a huntress, Tam. Step light and quick, and they'll never catch you.." She pulls me into a tight embrace. "And come back so you can go home."

I return her strength in the hug. "You're too good for this mess," I whisper to her. "Thank you for everything."

We release each other and she steps back while I move onto the platform. Glass shoots up and down around me and I am enclosed. Tigris smiles up at me with tears in her eyes as the platform starts to go upward.

I lower my lashes in an effort to shield my eyes from the bright sun that I emerge into. Once I feel that I have slightly adapted, I open my eyes fully and look around, taking in as much as I can.

There stands the Cornucopia about three hundred feet ahead of me. I am standing on a white sand beach. There is a forest off to my right, and some buildings that have fallen to ruin peeking up from the tops of the branches. There is an ocean of the purest blue, and I can see small islands not too far away, that same pure white sand present.

Twenty three of us stand around, equidistant from the Cornucopia. I don't look at anyone else, but I prepare to run. I am fast and agile, but when it comes to hand to hand combat, I don't have nearly the brute force that many of these people do. I hurl myself forward when the cannon booms out, off my platform and into the Games.


	4. Chapter 4

In a dead sprint, I race for the Cornucopia. I don't reach it first – that honor goes to Autumn, though I am next there. She pauses maybe three seconds looking over what she wants before grabbing supplies and bolting back the way she came. I lock on to what I want, because I don't see any throwing knives. I grab a dagger and a coil of rope, slinging a backpack stuffed with I don't know what onto my back. I don't stop at all and leap off part of the Cornucopia that is about five feet off the ground, rolling over my shoulder as I land and running hard to escape the screaming I can hear behind me.

I am lucky that I am quick. The noises coming from behind me are terrible, and I race to put them behind me as I charge into the forest. I keep going for another half mile or so before I stop, gasping for air. I haven't heard any cannons yet and so I know that the bloodbath must still be going on. I walk parallel to the beach, hoping to run into Kirr, hoping that he got away safely.

Soon enough, cannons fire. This is quicker than normal, and I don't know what to think about that. I pause and count them. Nine. Either this year's tributes don't take their sweet time in killing each other or we're all too scared to hang around. I'm not ashamed to say that I don't want to stick around and watch people my age kill children, or children kill children. It's all repulsive, and I am well out of it for now.

I continue west, heading towards the shore. I move warily, all my senses on alert. I hold the dagger in my right hand and every time I hear a rustling off to the side, I freeze and scan the area. Something is following me, I think, but it never shows itself and though I never relax, I do calm down slightly. Perhaps I am just paranoid, but I think I am entirely justified in this.

I come across a stream a few hours later and approach it carefully. It is flowing down to the ocean, I can tell, and I almost think I can see the bright blue of the salt water through the trees. I fish around in my backpack and find two canteens, each complete with a shoulder strap. I also find water purifying tablets, and I smile at my good fortune in running off with this particular backpack. I knew it was valuable because it was up high in the pile of goods at the Cornucopia, but I had no idea how valuable it was. Water would save me in this climate, water and my instincts and reflexes. I fill both canteens and move off again, not trusting the water out of the stream without purifying it first.

As dusk begins to fall, the anthem sounds. I am slightly worried that I haven't run in to any other tributes. I have seen signs of their passing, but I haven't seen one of them. I suppose most of them have gone further to try and get away and find a safe place to sleep. In doing so I think they have put themselves closer together than they would have otherwise, but that is not my problem. I stop walking and turn my face to the sky. Nine face are projected, starting with the girl from Four.

I can't help a smile of relief. Kirr got through. He is out here somewhere. He may be hurt, but I can still find him. I still have an ally. My smile fades slightly as I realize that I have become somewhat attached to him. That is bad, and I must fight it. If I care about him and we are the two left, then I will have to kill him, and I do not want that. I don't want to care about someone that I may have to kill.

More faces come up – the boy from Five, the girl from Six, the girl from Eight, and both tributes from Nine and Ten. I realize in the split second before the last face is shown that is is either Autumn or Morro. I don't want either of them dead, but the practical side of me breathes a sigh of relief when I see Autumn's face. I am assuming someone chased her down after she dashed away from the Cornucopia, and I can only be grateful that they didn't chase me.

Night begins to fall in earnest when the pictures fade from the sky. I look around for a place to stay the night and eventually find a large rock with a shallow pit under it, almost like a cave. I spend a few minutes camouflaging it with broken branches and other rocks. After that is done, I use the last of the light to spill the rest of the supplies out of the backpack. Besides the canteens, I am the proud owner of another dagger, this one in a sheath that I clip to my belt. There are four packets of dried fruit and six packets of jerky, as well as three tins of crackers. It's not much as far as food goes, but I am hungry already and I have no idea where else I could find food at night, and so I eat half a tin of crackers and a packet of the jerky.

As I am chewing on my food, I discover a thin blanket in the backpack as well. There is also a firestarting kit, and I hold it out so that the cameras can see. I give them a small wave, meaning it entirely for Tigris, so that she will know that I do not need one of the things I told her. I take a swig of water from my canteen and then repack my bag and squeeze into my tiny cave. I curl around my backpack and hold the longer dagger in my hand before falling into a light sleep, hoping everyone else has run inland and I will be safe tonight.

When I wake, it is because I hear light footsteps outside my cave. My eyes snap open by I do not leap out of my shelter to attack – instead, I move slowly, uncurl slightly, and peer out into the pre-dawn light. I try to stifle a gasp. There is a huge black dog, shaggy and muscled, pacing the clearing. It stops stock still at the noise I make, then snaps its head around to stare at me with bright grey eyes. It knows I am there, hiding in my cave. It takes a deep sniff, staring into my eyes, then blinks and runs off.

I stay curled up in my cave for at least ten minutes, my breathing shallow and quick. I don't know why the dog scared me so much, when my fellow tributes are the ones actively trying to kill me. There was something intelligent about that dog, something human about its eyes. I don't understand it and that's what scares me more than anything.

It must be a muttation, I think as I erase as many of the signs of my cave as I can. That dog... are there more? I hope not. That one was huge, probably taller than me if it was on its hind legs, and powerful. I know how to hunt and track animals, but being hunted and tracked by them is a frightening htought and I don't have any idea how to hide my scent from one. Humans are different, and even though I don't have all that much experience hiding from humans, I will learn. But that dog was something else.

I almost don't notice the poorly concealed footprints, but I do see a bloodstain on a tree. I fall into a defensive crouch instantly, my dagger practically springing into my hand. I strain my ears and hear a muffled curse in a masculine voice that seems familiar. Curious and wary enough to feel my muscles straining from how tense I am, I prowl forward.

There are a few more bloodstains that I can follow, and I eventually end up in a shallow depression in the forest. The footprints are heavier here, and I slink around behind the cover, careful to be silent on the pebbly ground. I can hear my quarry ahead of me, but the voice still sounds vaguely familiar, and so I do not fall into my hunting mode. Instead, I steal around to the side of him, then relax slightly as I see the moderately familiar face of Morro.

I debate with myself for a minute before doing anything. I know he allied with me, but he also allied with Kirr, and Kirr is not here. Also, he is mostly likely, completely understandably, hurting from his sister's murder. I don't know how he'll react to me, but he is wounded and I am armed. With that in mind, I step out onto the open ground in front of him.

"Morro," I greet. I haven't spoken in a while, and it feels strange to talk.

He jumps slightly and stares at me, then gives a shaky laugh. "I thought you were District Two." At my look, he motions to his left arm. "They got me at the Cornucopia yesterday. I've been on the run since then, hoping to see either you or Kirr."

"No sign of him, then?" I ask, finally moving closer and looking at his arm. He has been stabbed, I think, and there isn't much I can do. He has already bound up the wound and the blood that I can see looks clean.

"No, sorry." Morro sighs and sits down.

I shake my head. "Come on. You can't rest now. I found you easily enough, and that means anyone else could too. We need to get out of here and find shelter somewhere."

He looks at me wearily. "I've been moving all night."

"You went in a circle then, because I only had to track you half the morning." It's still not quite noon.

"I... ugh," Morro groans as he stands. I recognize that he can't go all that far and so I shimmy up a tree and look around from the top of it, trying to find a place to hide. Close enough, maybe two hour's walk, lie the ruined buildings I saw yesterday. I know that they will be popular destinations for tributes, but Morro needs sleep and I can see a storm brewing on the horizon.

It takes us a few hours to get to the ruins. Left to my own devices, I could have reached shelter in a quarter of the time. It's the heat of the afternoon when we reach the ruins, and Morro is clearly struggling. The little I know about District 11 is that it is hot, and so I think that he should probably be handling the heat better that I am, but he is pouring sweat.

"Let me scout it out," I say, helping him lean against a tree for support. "Don't move unless you hear someone who isn't me."

"How am I going to know that?" He asks. I shrug, then leave. He just needs sleep, somewhere safe to rest. I can give him that, and then he'll be fine.

I move into the building slowly. Concrete boulders lay in heaps around its edges, and I wonder what this place was. I see an entrance to what looks like a cellar but leave it – Morro could probably jump down into it just fine but I don't know how he could climb out with his battered arm. It would have probably been a good place, though.

I enter the ruin properly through a crumbling archway. It looks a bit like the aftermath of a mine explosion and I think that this place was bombed somehow. Pressing further into the building I hear water dripping faintly, echoing through the passages. My footsteps echo as well, and I do my best to step softly. I have no way of knowing who else has taken refuge in here, and the last thing I want is to run into one of them.

There are rooms lining the passageway, some with heaps of rubble over what I think must be former doorways. Dust lays on every surface that I can see, which is something of a relief. A layer of dust means that no one has come through here recently, much like an undisturbed forest floor means no game. Moving as quietly as I can manage, I shift some of the rubble blocking one of the doorways and force my way into the room behind it. My mouth falls open at the sight. There are three beds, real beds, with chests at the foot of each of them. One of the chests has spilled over and I see that it at least contains clothes, but not in any style I recognize. This place must be old. I feel strange as I paw through some of the clothing – whoever wore this clothes is probably dead ages ago, and it gives me a weird feeling.

But strange feelings or not, this is the best place I will probably find for Morro to recuperate. I make my way back out of the building warily, then freeze as I hear voices that I do not recognize. I slide down into a crouch behind one of the concrete boulders. The voices don't seem to be near where I left Morrow, but I hope he knows to stay silent. He's not stupid but I could feel him getting slightly feverish earlier, and fevers make people do crazy things.

"There's got to be someone hiding in here," one of the voices says. It's female and she's certain of herself if her tone of voice is anything to go by.

"Maybe there is, maybe there isn't," another female voice snaps irritably. "I say we follow the trail from earlier. Unless I completely miss my guess, it's District Twelve."

"Why are you so fixated on her?" The first voice asks scathingly.

"Have you seen her? She's like some animal. I want her dealt with, now." Part of me is pleased that I have garnered so much attention, and the other part is put even more on alert. There's someone out there with a hankering for my blood, and I need to ensure that she doesn't get it.

Then again, she did completely miss her guess. I had painstakingly covered the tracks Morro and I had left on our way to the ruins, and I didn't come by here yesterday on my mad dash away from the Cornucopia. I don't know who she's tracking, but I am sickened by the fact that I am grateful it's not me. I push my emotions down. There is no room for emotion here. I touch my gold cat pendant. Huntress. Emotionless. Fearless. Get home, bring our kids home, try to keep them safe. That is what I am right now, all I can be.

After a few more moments of me scarcely breathing, I hear them move off. I wait just a bit longer before creeping back to where I left Morro. I let him see me as I approach directly at him, doing my best not to alarm him.

"Did you hear them?" He asks. His eyes are bright with fever and when I touch his cheek he is cold and clammy. He still seems to be alert though, so I take that as a good sign and help him up.

"Of course I did. But I found a good place for you to rest, and I didn't see signs of anyone else there." We cross the open ground in front of the entrance to the ruins painfully slowly. With every second I wait for arrows to come screaming down at us, for someone to rush at us with a sword, for someone to tackle us from the back.

Despite my terrors, we make it into the building safely. I show Morro to the room I found and make him go first, then do my best to replace all the rubble I shifted. I don't think anyone can see that it's a room not entirely filled with the wreckage of whatever destroyed this place, but I am a wary person at the best of times, and so I continued to worry about it even as I helped settle Morro into one of the beds.

He doesn't put up a fight as I take the few supplies he has and place them next to my backpack. He has a water canteen much like mine, a book of matches, three plastic sheets, and some kind of strange darts. There's a little tube that goes along with them and I resolve to ask Morro what they are when he wakes.

He falls into a fitful sleep after I tried to get him to drink some of my purified water. I ate more of my rations, then softened a packet of jerky in some water for Morro to eat later. I wasn't particularly great at healing people – I had always specialized in killing things, not helping them get better.

Sundown was filtering in through the dirty window when I heard the anthem boom out. It shakes Morro from his sleep. He mutters something as I squint through the window to find out who it is. I only catch a glimpse of a number that isn't a four before the picture fades from the sky. Not Kirr.

I fall into a fitful, very light sleep soon after that. I know I am the only one of us who is capable of fighting should anyone discover our hideout. Thinking rationally, I recognize that I should leave Morro to make my own way. He is a liability, and the whole reason I agreed to ally with him was that he was strong and obviously fit, and likely able to hold his own in a fight. Now, if his fever gets any worse, he'll be as weak as a kitten. And even if he does make a recovery soon, he'll still be weaker and less able to keep up.

But I agreed to ally, and that is the sticking point. I gave him my word that we would ally, and that means I cannot just leave him without being haunted by it. I know that the things tributes do in the arena are politely ignored for the most part for the rest of their lives, but I couldn't live with it if I left him. I made a promise, same as I did to Gerom.

I wake as dawn shoots a beam of sunlight right through the window into my eyes. There's no peaceful moment of being half asleep and half awake as I swim up from the depths of sleep – my instincts immediately kick my mind into overdrive. Morro is still sleeping, and I can see the sweat on his brow shining.

I shake him awake gently. His eyes are brighter than before, and glassy. "I'm going to hunt and get more water. Try to be quiet. I'll be back soon." I don't know if he registered anything I said as he fades off back to sleep.

I leave via the window this time, shocked that its hinges move smoothly without a screech. I replace it and then dart into the woods, readying a dagger in my hand. I find a place to crouch in wait. I have very little of an idea what kinds of animals live in this climate, but it isn't long before I see something small, furry, and grey. I wait for it to get a little closer and then stick it with my knife.

I hurry over to it, pleased with my kill. It's small, but if I can get another it will feed us well. I move off down what I think might be a game trail then pick another spot to wait.

It takes a while longer for another grey animal to appear, but when it does my knife flips from my hand like lightning. I gather up my kill and listen hard for the sounds of water, wanting to refill my canteen. I don't hear anything so I venture farther from the ruins, moving down towards the ocean while keeping the buildings in the corner of my right eye.

After walking about an hour I hear a stream and head that way. Once I see the stream glinting through the tree I double my guard approaching it. The bank is bare of foliage and I creep up to it slowly, mimicking the movements of a deer as best as I can. Deer are always incredibly cautious when drinking, and I keep my eyes roving around the area as I fill my two canteens and Morro's single one. I back up into the trees before dropping the purifying tablets in the containers.

I trot away from the creek for about fifteen minutes, gathering dry twigs along the way. Despite the dampness of the climate, I manage to find some dry wood. I pile it into a small pyramid, then skin and cut up the small grey animals I shot earlier and lay the chunks of meat on one of the sheets of plastic I took from Morro. I strike a match and light the small fire, praying I got it right and there isn't too much smoke.

Once the fire is going nicely I hold two long green twigs over it, sanitizing the wood. I spear chunks of meat onto the twigs and then start roasting them. When I was preparing the meat I took care to keep the pieces of it small enough to cook quickly, and I only have to keep the fire going for about ten minutes before all the meat is roasted to my liking. I scuff the fire out and wrap the meat up in the sheet of plastic, stowing it away in my backpack with the canteens.

I take a different path back to the ruins than my route down to the stream. It's almost pleasant in the pre-noon light, but I don't relax too much. I allow myself to savor the sun for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary. Tilting my head back, I catch sigh of something shiny falling from the sky. My mind immediately flashes to those darts Morro had and I leap for cover.

The shiny things floats to the ground and I see that it is a balloon with a big number 12 on it. I feel slightly silly as I leave my hiding place and retrieve it, then scamper back down through the window and back into our hiding spot.

Morro is tossing and turning and I bite my lip. He's sweating and shivering at the same time. What I can see of his wound still looks clean, but I really don't know anything. I do, however, vaguely remember something about sweating out a fever, so I bundle my blanket around him and throw some of the old clothes over top of him as well. It's worth a shot.

With that taken care of as best as I can, I look to my gift. It's very light and clinks together gently when I move it. I take the wrapping off in one piece, the fold it for possible use later. The paper isn't unlike the paper I'd wrap meat in back home.

Two vambraces, made of the lightest metal I have ever felt, greet my sight. I pick one of them up and slide it onto my forearm, where it sits like a second skin. I inspect the other one. Faint filigree traces along it, ending in an etched running cat who is lean and deadly-looking. I recognize Tigris's work in it and smile slightly.

The metal is also incredibly hard. I test it by first running one of my daggers down it, then throwing the vambrace across the room and hurling a dagger after it. I find that the metal isn't so much as scratched when I pick it up. My pleased smile widens as I slip the second vambrace on. I can barely feel that they're there, and they fit well with my games-issued wristbands, the ones for swimming.

Although I am grateful for the gift, I do wonder why Tigris hasn't sent me the daggers I asked for. The two daggers I have now will work, but I would like a set. But I am greedy, and so I put those thoughts away. It is more than enough that I have the vambraces.

There is no anthem at sundown, and I figure that most people are trying to find a safe place to call their own. I have no way of knowing where anyone is, and so I settle into sleep uneasily. Thirteen of us are left. Thirteen people stand between me and home.


End file.
